You know how sometimes

they decide to try to fix the roads,

so they take big orange signs and flashing lights

and make the cars go another way.

That’s what my mind is doing to me today.

I try to find the words, but I don’t know where to go;

the detour is’t marked well,

and conflicting signs direct me:

puppies, poverty, pretty celebrities,

gifs, greenhouse gases, generous families.

Of what should i write?

Which way should I drive?

I want the smooth roads,

the graceful lines,

pen to paper, I just want to write.

Writer’s Block plagues my mind

like everlasting construction

going on through the night.

I want paved roads,

but I don’t know if this is the way to go.

I want to have the words,

but I don’t want to work

for every painful letter,

marking the passage of hours thereafter.

And I can’t even write a sentence

without fighting this sickness.

So to writer’s block I dedicate this poem,

In your face, I beat you, alone.

I wrote the words that danced in my head,

ignored the roadblocks, conquered the illness,

and found solace in words unfiltered.